work (and other indoor sports)
It's strange - I spend almost a third of my life at work, and for some reason it never gets a mention in this journal. Obviously I wouldn't want to bore you daily with doyouknowwhatshesaid?s, but the idea that all this time is so wasted and meaningless it has no place in my assembled thoughts is even more depressing. Right now, however, I feel more able to pass comment on it because tomorrow - joy of joys! - is my last day there (and here, and with Alex, but I'm not even going to begin to think about that until I absolutely have to). Today was the Freshers Fayre at SOAS and was, dare I think it, actually rather fun. I spent substantial proportions of the day wandering around all the other stalls and trying to wangle freebies, finally coming home with: a NatWest bottle opener, a Barclaycard camera, several condoms (from the safe sex stall), a mini Nivea tin, and a Royal Bank of Scotland keyring, pen, pencil and post-it pad as well as three cans of fake Red Bull and countless funsize packs of maltesers. Of course we did do some work in the course of the day, but that was tiresome and not worth a mention.
In a way, I've been surprised how easy I've found these last six weeks. I've been able to wake up every morning without noticeable dread at the prospect of another day, and the time has disappeared without my really noticing. I find it terrifying at times - that large sections of my life can just go like that, changing nothing and leaving no memory, because who'd want to remember eight hours of doing the same thing again and again? And there are people at my branch who have done nothing else, ever, since they first started work. It's hard not to get dragged in to the indifference of it all, the dailygrind mentality. Here I am, in Tavistock House - a gloriously high-ceilinged building that is rendered absolutely mediocre by the blue carpets and jargon and business smiles - in a beautiful and interesting part of London, and I'm unable to devote any attention to any of it. It all requires a state of mind that delights in nothing, has no passions, no whims, just keeps its head down and gets on with things. I find myself trying to fight it in small ways. Whenever I realise that an hour has just slipped out of my life without my having a single imaginative thought, I panic and start noticing things - the cheekbones of a beautiful French girl (to whom I'm just another faceless bank drone), say, or the quality of light at a particular time of day - anything that I can experience, rather than simply do. I've fallen into the habit of trying to make my lunch hours as varied and stimulating as possible. If I've spent the day sitting still I'll walk and walk and watch the sky until the world starts to unfold again, or find a pretty spot beneath a tree where the sunlight falls in a certain way and read, or just get on a train and go somewhere, anywhere, so long as it's not where I'll be this afternoon. The need for escape is immediate, instinctive.
And of course, it makes me absolutely determined that I will never be permanently confined like this. Temping is one thing, but the thought of settling forever into this grey drudge of days is more than I can bear. And I know I've written about this a lot recently, but it seems so desperately important - whatever I end up doing, I want to have time to appreciate beauty, and I want to be allowed to be me.
This evening Alex's dad took me to hear Kate Rusby - a wry, slightly girlish folk singer from Barnsley with a lovely accent who wears big boots and flowers in her hair, and has little trees with starshaped fairylights on stage and tells rude jokes inbetween songs - which was wonderfully feelgood and left me feeling all Northern. Afterwards I flirted with the bassist and Kate's dad gave me a poster, which I took round all the band members to sign and shall put on my new bedroom wall. At the moment I feel like I can even face work tomorrow - but thank god it's the last time I'll have to.
In a way, I've been surprised how easy I've found these last six weeks. I've been able to wake up every morning without noticeable dread at the prospect of another day, and the time has disappeared without my really noticing. I find it terrifying at times - that large sections of my life can just go like that, changing nothing and leaving no memory, because who'd want to remember eight hours of doing the same thing again and again? And there are people at my branch who have done nothing else, ever, since they first started work. It's hard not to get dragged in to the indifference of it all, the dailygrind mentality. Here I am, in Tavistock House - a gloriously high-ceilinged building that is rendered absolutely mediocre by the blue carpets and jargon and business smiles - in a beautiful and interesting part of London, and I'm unable to devote any attention to any of it. It all requires a state of mind that delights in nothing, has no passions, no whims, just keeps its head down and gets on with things. I find myself trying to fight it in small ways. Whenever I realise that an hour has just slipped out of my life without my having a single imaginative thought, I panic and start noticing things - the cheekbones of a beautiful French girl (to whom I'm just another faceless bank drone), say, or the quality of light at a particular time of day - anything that I can experience, rather than simply do. I've fallen into the habit of trying to make my lunch hours as varied and stimulating as possible. If I've spent the day sitting still I'll walk and walk and watch the sky until the world starts to unfold again, or find a pretty spot beneath a tree where the sunlight falls in a certain way and read, or just get on a train and go somewhere, anywhere, so long as it's not where I'll be this afternoon. The need for escape is immediate, instinctive.
And of course, it makes me absolutely determined that I will never be permanently confined like this. Temping is one thing, but the thought of settling forever into this grey drudge of days is more than I can bear. And I know I've written about this a lot recently, but it seems so desperately important - whatever I end up doing, I want to have time to appreciate beauty, and I want to be allowed to be me.
This evening Alex's dad took me to hear Kate Rusby - a wry, slightly girlish folk singer from Barnsley with a lovely accent who wears big boots and flowers in her hair, and has little trees with starshaped fairylights on stage and tells rude jokes inbetween songs - which was wonderfully feelgood and left me feeling all Northern. Afterwards I flirted with the bassist and Kate's dad gave me a poster, which I took round all the band members to sign and shall put on my new bedroom wall. At the moment I feel like I can even face work tomorrow - but thank god it's the last time I'll have to.